The Cult, at HMV Apollo, W6

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The Cult have always trodden a fine line between drama and comedy. Whether
it’s forsaking their Goth roots for the equally ridiculous trappings of
heavy metal, or indulging in the kind of pagan imagery normally reserved for
communes in Wiltshire, they can flip from impressive to ridiculous faster
than you can say Spinal Tap.

Stalking the stage in a fur-shouldered jacket, Ian Astbury, their singer for
30 excessive years, had the air of a deranged chieftain, albeit one whose
accent ping-ponged between his native Merseyside and his adopted California.
For a 50-year-old whose svelte days are behind him, he was